The Arrangement of Pressed Flowers and Ivy
by Evil-Ekat
Summary: AU. Phoenix's day had started out with him going to the courthouse library to research, and meeting a nice girl with a flowery name. It ends, however, with survivor's guilt, a new-found dislike for bookshelves, and a little more maturity than he possessed before. Somewhere between all this, he talks to a prosecutor named "Greg."


**Read, review, and enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Ace Attorney.**

* * *

Phoenix was used to falling asleep in somewhat inconvenient positions, ever since he had started university. It was hard to stay awake while he needed to study! Thus, he oftentimes found himself drifting off in a sea of papers, and books. Especially books. Reference books, textbooks, portfolio examples, albums, novels... They cluttered on his bed, and occasionally on his roommate's, propped around him with their spines popped, so the pages wouldn't turn. Eventually, his eyes would pass over the words, but he could no longer derive meaning from them. And in the next moment, he would fall asleep.

That being said, this was by far the strangest way he had come to. It occurred when a coppery scent caught his attention. But that which brought him to consciousness was quickly forgotten. There were books, he could recognize the feeling quite easily. Some were underneath him, but he was buried for the most part. It was odd, considering he would normally collapse, and stretch out until he was sleeping on the books, not the other way around.

That was not the most peculiar thing with the situation. It was dark, he could see light, a faint crevice of it, off to the side. It was dim, possessing a reddish hue, nothing like the florescent lights of the building. Strangest of all, however, was that he could barely move. It started when Phoenix attempted to raise his head. The cheek which was not squashed against the floor immediately brushed against something cold, metallic. He could turn his head no further because of the thing obstructing his way. With that realization, alarm bells started to ring, he became more coherent of the situation. In his tiny spurts of movement, where he tried to escape the position, books slid off his torso. He could shimmy, but any part of him that stuck up- his knees his feet, his chest when he inhaled- pressed at the weighty thing on top of him.

 _"It's the bookshelf."_

Phoenix strained to push it off, but it was too heavy. It was one of the shelves in the library, heavy-duty, built to be laden with thick volumes dedicated to law, and history. He knew that this one in particular stretched the width of the room, a single unit. And he knew that because... He... He was in the basement! The basement of the district courthouse! He had been downstairs, when she had approached him, and the ground had started to-

The redhead! Where was she? He had been closer to the shelf than her. Maybe she had escaped it. She could help him!

"H-hello?" Phoenix' voice was raspy, his heaving chest ached in protest. "Is anyone there? Hello?!"

To his right, someone inhaled. He perceived a slight rustling of clothes. It must be her! How had she introduced herself again? He got the impression it was something flowery. Daisy?

"I-I am..." There was a long, drawing inhale. "I am present."

Much to his surprise, it was a _male_ that responded. Phoenix had thought he and the girl (Daphne?) had been the only ones in the library. Perhaps he had come down once the quakes had stopped.

"I can't see you."

"I'm under a shelf," he replied, "I think it fell on me."

"Which section?"

"Statutory interpretation and precedent. It's just past advanced contract law for foreign lawyers, and a little to the left of judicial review and-"

"-the national political process-," he finished. "Yes, I know where that is."

Crackling noises. He was treading on something graveley. Had rubble dislodged from the ceiling? Phoenix could only see what the faint light permitted him to. The silhouettes of books obscured parts of his vision, while above him was only darkness. Palms and knees shuffled across his point of view. The man was crawling across the floor.

Perhaps it was side-effects of the earthquake, but Phoenix could swear he was shaking.

"Do you think you can pull me out?" Phoenix asked.

From near his head, he became aware of a slight warmth. Then the man's voice slowly said, "there's something in the way."

"What is it?"

"If I get rid of it, the shelf will instead fall upon you. At the very least, I need something which can hold up the shelf its place. Or another way to reach you."

A shudder of dread flooded through him at the thought of being crushed. With his growing understanding of the situation, new spots of pain bloomed across his body. He was bruised in many places, and he could smell blood. It was too dark for him to see where it might be, but he felt like it was closer to his head. Sharp pinpricks sprouted and would radiate outwards with each of his breaths, the pain was more distracting than bleeding was.

"Y-you should get o-out then."

"N-nonsense. All I need to do is find an object weighty enough to swap out. Or something you can hold on to. It's basic logic."

Phoenix was glad the man sounded just as shaken as he felt, despite the snobby words.

"Are you crazy? There could be an aftershock at any moment! Then you'd be in trouble too!"

There was no response, beyond a strangled _"ngh"_ sound. His breathing started to become laboured, irregular. He hyperventilating, inhaling in all the dust which had yet to settle. Phoenix didn't know what was wrong with what he said, but he knew it was a bad comment to make. So, he tried to intervene, before it got worse.

"Cover your mouth with something," he explained, fighting to keep his voice level, "use your sleeve, your jacket if you're wearing one."

Phoenix echoed himself a few times, his words becoming steadier with each repetition. He was not certain if it was helping the man, but he knew that it was at least soothing his own nerves. He was also not certain how many times he looped through the same command, nor how long it took until a sputtering cough signified he was settling down.

"I-I... A-apologize-"

"What?"

"I panicked, I-I can't walk far enough to reach the stairs-"

"I-it's fine! You know what they always drill into us at school: not everyone reacts the same to emergencies... Speaking of which, is there anything else threatening around? We should take note."

Phoenix winced internally at his usage of "speaking of which" to segue into keeping inventory of deathly situations.

"The only pressing matter I can see is the debris. There are no loose cables, no windows to fret over, and the emergency lights are all functional," he started to sound more confident as he continued to list. "I don't think it was strong enough to rupture the pipelines as well."

"Anything else?"

Could it really be that rubble was the most they had to worry about? There were no other dangers present in the room? Phoenix certainly hoped so.

"There are some outlets, one has a lamp plugged in."

"Right," he instinctively tried to nod, and only succeeded in scraping his face against the shelf. "That could be a fire hazard if the power surged on."

"I'll unplug it."

There was a moment of quiet, as he edged his way to where the lamp was. Phoenix decided that keeping up a stream of conversation was the best route to take if they wanted to keep calm.

"I'm Phoenix."

He mumbled something incoherent, disbelief evident in his tone. Phoenix could only hear the end.

"...right?"

"Yup! Fake-sounding I know. I guess yours is more believable?"

A pause.

"...I am... Greg."

"Well Greg, I'm sure the phone lines are all scrambled and everyone's already searching for others as it is, but do you think we could call someone? Here, I've got my cell..."

He managed to slide it out of his pocket, it skittered across the floor.

"Good grief this thing is archaic! And... cracked."

Two months. Two months of doing odd jobs around the town. Walking dogs, mowing lawns, returning beer bottles. Two months of his teenaged life that he would never be able to get back now. If he wasn't trapped underneath a bookshelf, Phoenix thought he might cry over his poor, dedicated cellphone.

He was distracted from his mourning when a peculiar smell caught his attention. It was faint, just barely hanging in the air. It came in waves, fluttering in and out of his consciousness. But it was starting to get stronger. Whatever it was, it made his hair want to stand on end. It tickled at the back of his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough.

"Greg, do you smell that?"

"No."

"It's coming from somewhere above me, can you just-?"

"Did I not already say there aren't any ruptured pipes?" Greg scoffed. "There's nothing to worry about."

 _"Yeesh, you'd think_ _ **he**_ _was the one in mortal peril, the way he's talking."_

Something wet came into contact with the back of his neck. Then he was awash in the smell which had just bothered him since awakening.

He came to the abrupt conclusion of what was going on. It explained the fading warmth near his head. Why Greg refused to talk about there being something _wrong_ with the room. It explained why he had never explained what was blocking his path to rescue, what was holding up the shelf.

It explained why the girl had never replied, when he had called her name.

"G-Greg-!"

"There's nothing to worry about," he repeated, more forcefully that time.

"S-she's dead isn't she? I would've noticed her breathing if she was... O-oh-"

He squeezed his eyes shut, and his breathing became heavy. New spurts of pain, like tiny, prickling thorns now dug into him. All the while, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, like it was begging to be led out. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to _get out_ , but he couldn't. She was blocking the way. Her _corpse_ was blocking the way, and yet it was the only thing which had saved him from being smothered to death at the same time.

"What are you doing here?

Greg's voice cut through the deluge of petrified thoughts. They crept back for a moment, confusion warding them off.

"W-what?"

"Why are you here? What were you doing in the courthouse library?"

"I'm a student at Ivy University," he dutifully answered. "I was researching. I need it for a project."

"Ivy? They're hardly renowned for their law programs. They have the same entrance scores as Themis, so what made you come here?"

"I'm actually an arts student."

"Arts? You seem very familiar with the library for someone who's an arts student."

"What?! How do you know that?"

"Earlier, you easily identified multiple sections in the library, therefore, you must be familiar with your surroundings!"

Phoenix was momentarily stunned by Greg's reasoning. He had not even realized he had given information like that away, and he had certainly never thought Greg would notice.

"Law is just sort of a side-thing right now," he explained, "that's why I'm not enrolled in Themis."

"Hmm." Greg did not press on the statement, instead choosing to move subject topic. "What kind of project were you researching for?"

"Why would you ask that? You already know."

"I mean specifically."

"Oh! Lingering remnants of the British legal system upon our own! We're looking at the four main theories on how political culture is spread, so I chose to follow Hartz' idea of fragment theory, and Lipset's on formative events for contrast! John Locke is one of my main examples for the report, seeing as his ideas influenced our government so heavily. Of course, since he's so commonly used, I wanted some more specialized information to beef things up, make my professor less likely to skim over the good bits!"

"Have you thought of looking at members of the Commonwealth and their legal systems for reference?"

"No, but I'll definitely have to!"

"What else does the project entail?"

"First there's the written report, then I have to use that information in a debate to prove our..." Phoenix had started out, happy to elaborate more upon his project, but he slowly came to a realization. "Hold it! Are you _cross-examining_ me?!"

"It took you long enough to notice."

Flustered, he retorted, "I thought you were being a good conversationalist! I mean, what kind of a person takes testimony from the guy squished beneath a bookshelf?"

"The same one who's trying to keep you calm."

"What lead you to thinking cross-examining was the best option?"

"Well I- _Why you-!"_

"Please amend your testimony to include that information," Phoenix said, in a prim voice which didn't match his grin.

"You-!"

His "testimony" was cut short by pounding footsteps, and a new, booming voice.

"Mister Ed-!"

"Detective Gumshoe," he interrupted, getting straight to the point. "There's a man pinned underneath this bookshelf."

"Investigative Tool Number Three, coming right up!"

"Watch where you swing that!"

"Sorry Sir! Anyway, do you think you can grab onto this fishing pole?"

From the side, he was poked with the fishing pole. Phoenix was able to hold it with one arm, but he couldn't reach with the other. Then, exactly like a fish on a line, he was dragged out into the light. He was dazed for a moment, even in the faint glow of emergency lights. Not only that, he had held his uncomfortable position of laying on the ground with his head turned for a very long time. He was also impressed that the detective- a large and understandably scruffy bear of a man- had been able to pull him out, just like that.

However, as his eyes adjusted, and he took his first few unrestricted breaths, his sight settled upon... _Her_ body...

Red hair, black roots sprouting from her crown, spilled onto the floor, hiding the growing pool of blood. Phoenix brought a hand to the back of his own head, and swallowed, hard. She had obviously been stricken when the shelf had fallen over. It was like taking a club to the head, someone as lithe as her never could have hoped to survive such a blow. The sweet, yet shy girl he had been talking to only minutes ago was dead. His mind could barely register the fact. The smell of blood, saccharine as her voice, helped remind him of the truth. He backed away- crawled, actually, he was too weak to stand- from the shelf, and averted his eyes from the scene.

The detective comfortingly patted him on the back.

"S'ok, it'll be alright. Right Mister Edgeworth?"

That surprise took more time to register than the first.

"E-Edge... Worth?"

He immediately turned his attention to the other person in the room. His clothes may have been plastered white with dust, and his cravat only hanging on to his neck by a few threads, but that was very clearly him. The glare he focused upon Gumshoe promised much misery in the future, it passed over Phoenix entirely.

"I'll let you handle things from here Detective," he brusquely said, turning to leave the room.

"Wait! Edgeworth-!"

"Hold on Pal! You've got-!"

Phoenix didn't listen to the rest of what was said, choosing to stand up and chase after Edgeworth before he left without explanation, _again._ He was just in sight as he went up the stairs. With each leap upwards, Phoenix was certain that he would reach him. But then, he came to the main floor, and was met with a flood of people. He stopped, searching through the pandemonium for the tell-tale signs, and found none. Gumshoe had caught up with him in the meantime, still ranting about his current state.

"Hey! Don't run off like that Pal!" Gumshoe reprimanded.

"But where is he?" Phoenix asked, still scanning the crowds. "W-where'd he-?"

Every time he swung his head in a different direction, it became more difficult on his neck. It was a side effect of laying in an awkward position, but he couldn't stop looking now.

"Look," said the detective, but Phoenix could not bring himself to stop searching. "You need to get to a hospital, not go chasing someone."

"He was so close!" Phoenix replied, more to himself than to Gumshoe. "I could've-"

"You've been trapped under a bookshelf for almost half an hour," he gently corrected. "You've probably got a concussion, and bruises from falling on the way down."

"B-but I-" Phoenix glanced down at himself, and he suddenly started to notice how much pain he was in.

His chest, while sore when he regained consciousness, now felt like it was on fire. Like he could barely breathe. He coughed, expelling some of the dust which he had inhaled in surprise. Following that, he discovered how feeble his legs were, how they ached all over. How had he gone up so many stairs, when it seemed like his knees would buckle at any moment? His legs were too flimsy to support his weight at a time like this. And... was he shaking? Was he breathing properly? He had gone from having the pressing load of the shelf to floating around. He was strangely light in places, he could float away at any moment now. Up into the sky and past the clouds... With the birds... Everyone would make awful jokes about his last name if he did that.

No.

He wasn't going to fly away.

Yes, that was why he was hugging the floor. That was why his face was brushing against grit, and the smooth stone beneath it.

Phoenix only had one thought before passing out for the second time.

 _"This is much more comfortable without so many books in the way."_

* * *

Falling unconscious twice in one day naturally meant that he woke up twice, as well. This time, in a hospital bed, with an IV in his arm and a curious lack of feeling in his abdomen. A few adventurous pokes had successfully annoyed the nurse who came to check up on him, and prove he was on painkillers.

While in the hospital, Phoenix quickly learned that what he went without was what he would have appreciated, whereas what he did have were things he could truly go without.

There were no crying family members to show up at his bedside. No one there to sneak in food he wasn't supposed to eat in the hospital, or bring his recovered schoolbooks from the basement. To the side, he had a table and windowsill. They were meant for cards and bunches of flowers. Instead, he had a nice view of the chipped, white paint which coated them both. Along with that, there was Larry, the crippling self-loathing caused by survivor's guilt, and the worries of a hospital bill on top of the cost to replace a cell phone.

The things, lost and taken, weighed equally upon his mind throughout his night in the hospital.

Then, he checked out of the hospital.

There was a note waiting for him at the nurse's station. To be given to him on the instruction of "an unkempt man in uniform."

Hastily scribbled on hospital stationery, was a phone number, and the plea to "not turn out to be some kind of stalker, and also not tell Mister Edgeworth where you got this from."

It was not enough to tip the balance, not after what he had just been through, but it was something. Faintly smiling, he pocketed the note.

He'd look forwards to another cross-examination.

 _ **Fin**_


End file.
